


Devils and Angels

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-05
Updated: 2008-09-06
Packaged: 2019-03-15 10:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13611192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Life can turn on a moment…





	1. disaster

**Author's Note:**

> This was very tough to write, hitting a little too close to home. But it was therapeutic, and in a way, freeing. Also, I am not trained, medically speaking, and research only goes so far. Any errors are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Disclaimer: I only pretend it's mine to play with.

Losing a case, horrible week at the office, professional and personal arguments with his colleagues, mountains of paperwork to catch up on, three pre-trial motions in the next week…

It was really not the best time to spring a garden party on Mark Darcy.

He had silently and sullenly agreed out of respect for his wife and her mother, but he apparently had not been good enough to hide it: "Mark, what's the matter?" Bridget asked, en route to her mother's house.

"I think you already know what the matter is. I wish you would consult me before agreeing to this sort of thing," he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I really couldn't afford the trip to Grafton Underwood this weekend."

"You know I'm not crazy about the idea of going, either, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings, and she needed an answer straightaway. Besides, you've been carrying boulders around on your shoulders, I swear!" she retorted. "You're so stressed. You need some time away, and this'll force you to take some."

"Did it occur to you that forcing me to take time might increase rather than decrease my stress levels?" he barked in return. "All I can think of is the work waiting for me when I come back, and less time in which to do it. I won't have a good time, I'll make you miserable…" He rounded a particularly sharp curve a little too fast, then cursed under his breath.

"But I brought you your very own horns and pitchfork."

"What?"

"The theme is Devils and Angels."

"For Christ's sake, Bridget," he said crossly. "Do you really think going to another of your mother's ridiculous parties dressed like a bloody idiot is going to help?"

There was no response to his admittedly too-harsh comment, and with his hands firmly on the wheel, he glanced over to her, saw how glum she looked, and felt immediately regretful. Intending on apologising, he reached for her hand just as she looked away through the windscreen.

What happened next happened faster than the blink of an eye. Her face became a mask of horror; she screamed his name; he heard a thud, a sickening metallic crunch and the shattering of glass; and then everything went black.

………

He became aware of a throbbing pain in his head and the sensation of something wet and sticky sliding down his cheek. He opened his eyes, lifted his very heavy head, and had difficulty focusing around him. The airbag laid across the steering wheel; the windshield was gone except for a crumbling, fractured frame of glass shards around the edge. The bonnet was mashed and dented, and smears of blood and tufts of fur were stuck in the folds.

He saw no immediate evidence of the animal he had surely hit—and then with a gasp of horror looked to his left, knew that the passenger side had borne the brunt of the impact. Bridget was there, slumped forward limply like a rag doll, her hair, her lovely summer dress sprayed with glass and stained dark with blotches of blood. He froze with shock, tried to say her name but found the wind had been knocked out of him.

He managed to disentangle himself from his safety belt and reached over to gingerly touch her throat, searching for a pulse at what he knew would be the most obvious point, terrified at first that he could not find one, then relieved when he did, though it was weak. He dared not move her for fear of making her injuries worse. 

_Oh, Bridget. Oh, Jesus._ It was all he could think, over and over again in a loop in his head.

His hands, which to his surprise were streaked with blood as well, were trembling so badly he had a hard time getting to his mobile, but he managed to pull it out and press the nine key three times.

As he was speaking to the dispatcher, he knew he was not being coherent, but he couldn't think. He had no idea what time it was or how long he'd been knocked out; the sun was still pretty high in the sky, by his reckoning, though his perception of things was a bit askew. He had no idea where he was, except for a quiet stretch of road between A14 and Grafton Underwood.

He had no idea how serious his injuries were. Or Bridget's. He did, however, impress upon the man on the phone that two of them needed immediate medical attention.

"Just hurry. For God's sake. Hurry." He strained to remain calm.

The dispatcher remained on the line with him for what felt like hours, though logically he knew it was not. He could hear the ambulance sirens approaching, and raised a shaking hand to wipe his brow. Only then did he connect the wet, warm feeling on his cheek with his own injuries, his own blood. His eyes went out of focus and though he struggled to stay conscious, the blackness overtook him again.

………

He came to again with the concerned face of a paramedic hovering over him. "Can you hear me, sir?"

He nodded, slightly, then with more vigour, trying to push himself up. A second paramedic, a stocky blond man who would have looked more at home on the docks than there in the ambulance, appeared out of nowhere to help his colleague push Mark back down. "Easy, there. You've had a nasty bump to the head, but you'll be all right."

"What about Bridget?"

"She's fine, stabilised, in another ambulance," said the stout paramedic. "Is she your girlfriend?"

"Wife," he said.

"Well, we're on route to hospital. You'll get to see her soon enough."

"What's your name?" asked the first paramedic, a young, dark-skinned man with a friendly smile.

"Darcy." He tried pushing himself up again. At the man's puzzled expression, Mark elaborated, "Mark Darcy."

"Well, Mr Darcy, I'm George. How many fingers am I holding up?"

He blinked, squinting a bit. "Three."

"Nice try. Two. Lie back down and stay down."

Mark thought it probably best that he did.

"So what happened?"

He hated to think of it, his nasty comment that seemed to nearly bring her to tears, before his glance away from the road, and then the impact. "I looked away for a few seconds at most—something came out in front of the car. I didn't see it."

"Probably a deer," replied George. "Didn't see any carcasses around though, so it must have been all right enough to run off."

"Someone might be in for a nasty surprise in their backyard though if the poor critter decides to kick off."

_Backyard._ The word sparked the memory of Pam Jones' Devils and Angels backyard party—surely by now they were missed, surely he needed to call her parents, his own. He tried reaching into his pocket but his aim was slightly off; that and he realised the phone had never made it back in.

"What's wrong?"

"I need my mobile."

"We've got it, but I'm afraid we're here."

"What?"

"Kettering General. You'll have to wait to make your call."

………

After a thorough examination, the staff proclaimed a concussion and contusion was the extent of his major injuries. "Looked a lot worse than it was," said the doctor. "Head wounds have a tendency to bleed profusely."

In his mind's eye he could only picture his beautiful Bridget's blonde locks soaked with blood.

Interrupting the doctor's recommendation that Mark stay overnight for observation, Mark asked abruptly, "Where's my wife? Is she all right? Can I see her? I need my mobile phone. Someone needs to call her parents. My parents."

"One thing at a time, Mr Darcy," said the doctor. "Your wife is in stable condition. As was the case with your injury, the injury to her head was not as severe as it appeared, though her contusion required several stitches." The doctor looked down, and Mark's stomach dropped to his feet. Bad news was coming. "The police advised that the animal struck the passenger side. She's pretty bruised up, but we don't see any evidence of serious internal injuries. However… she hasn't regained consciousness yet."

If Mark hadn't already been sitting, his legs would have given out from under him. If the last thing she ever heard from him had been such harsh words….

"I'll stay for observation, but on the condition I be allowed to stay in her room."

The doctor's eyes widened. "Well, that's a bit of an unusual request…"

"I'll be staying in there, officially or unofficially," he said dangerously.

The doctor nodded. "Let me get your personal items, but you'll have to use one of our phones to make your calls. Mobiles aren't allowed."

………

The call to the Joneses went about as well as could be expected. Wisely he spoke to Colin, her father, though he felt a little dishonest in saying she was all right as he had not as yet actually been in to see Bridget yet. They—the Joneses and the Darcys—were going to head out for the hospital as soon as possible, and the Alconburys the Enderburys were going to stay until the rest of the party guests could be ushered out.

With a deep breath and a lead ball sitting heavily in his gut, he pushed open the door to Bridget's room and brought his hand involuntarily to his mouth:

The sheets were covering her to just over her chest; she wore a patterned hospital gown, and her head was wrapped in a bandage to cover the area just over her forehead. Her arms were raked with surface scratches—probably where the glass had struck her bare skin—and bruises. It was, however, the blackened circles around her eyes, the puffiness of her eyelids, the plum-coloured marks on her cheeks, and the oxygen tube in her nose that choked his throat with emotion. They had, thankfully, washed her hair, which was gleaming gold again, but sat limply against her shoulders and on the pillow. Lifelessly.

Hesitantly he stepped in; the door whooshed closed behind him but he hardly noticed for the concentration it took to get to her bedside. His vision blurred, but it didn't have anything to do with his head wound, and he raised his fingers to brush the wetness away from under his eyes. He sat on the bed beside her, took her left hand in his, realising she had been divested of her rings.

He was surprised by the sob that escaped his throat.

He heard the door open behind him. "Oh, good, Mr Darcy; you're here. I wanted to give you your wife's things." It was another doctor. He didn't even look up to accept the packet. The doctor continued, "She looks worse than she is. I promise you."

He looked down, willing the tears to stay back, but they didn't obey. He felt the doctor's hand strong on his shoulder, and he appreciated the comfort, but he really wanted to be alone with her. Wanted to talk to her. Wanted to apologise.

Silently the doctor left.

He slipped open the packet and put her rings back on her hand, then took it in both of his, holding it tight. "Bridget," he said softly. "I'm so, so sorry."

He half-hoped, half-expected that she'd crack open her eyes and make a joke about how he hadn't actually any control over the deer making its entrance when it did, but she didn't. Something about her silence just then—expected, logical, understandable, given her condition—made him even sadder. He brought his head down to meet her hand, and started to weep unabashedly.

_I love you._

_I don't want to lose you._

_I don't know what I'd do without you._

He then felt another pair of hands on his shoulders. He turned, wiping his cheeks and sniffing, to see her mother had come in. It was the most sombre he had ever seen Pamela Jones; her eyes were red and rheumy, and her lower lip was quivering; she was still dressed in the floaty white dress that had presumably been her 'angel' outfit. "Mark."

"Mrs Jones."

"I'm so glad you're—" Her voice cracked; she cleared her throat. "Glad you're okay." He felt her hands on his shoulders, squeeze reassuringly before she raised one to smooth over his hair as if he were a small boy again.

Mark wondered where the others were; as if reading his mind, Pam explained, "Colin and your parents… they're in the waiting area. They only want two of us in here at a time, and no one would think of asking you to leave."

He was frankly surprised at her calm demeanour. He had half expected her to come rushing in wailing like a banshee demanding to see her daughter, demanding to know when the doctors were going to wake her up. But here she was, silent, thoughtful, and sad.

She walked around to the other side of the bed and sat, taking Bridget's other hand.

"It was so sudden," said Mark quietly. "I only turned for a moment—"

"Mark," she said, gently and firmly. "No one blames you."

"I blame myself. If I hadn't been so…" Angry. Stressed. Aggravated. And for all the wrong reasons. "…distracted," he finished at last, weakly.

"Those deer can appear out of nowhere, and quickly." She turned to look at him, her eyes wide and pleading; he knew at once where Bridget had inherited the mannerism from. " _Please._ Don't upset yourself in front of Bridget."

He looked back to his wife as he nodded, watched the slow and steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, felt tears in his eyes again as he thought _At least she's breathing, and on her own—it could have been much worse._ He just needed her to wake up. Nothing else mattered. And he had to be strong.

Pam leaned forward and brushed her fingertips softly down her daughter's cheek. "Oh, my darling little girl," she said, choking with tears again. "Don't think I don't know you were only coming today to make me happy…"

Mark already felt bad about the accident; now he felt worse having painted her mother in such a negative light in his own thoughts. He looked to Pam again.

Pam continued with forced brightness, "But! You've got the very best husband in all the world—" She turned and smiled at Mark, and genuinely so. "—and you're surrounded by people who love you."

She then stretched out her right hand over Bridget's legs, in an offer to take Mark's hand. He offered her a smile of his own, and took it.

They sat there like that in silence, Pam's hand somehow reassuring in his own for the occasional tightening around his fingers, for what seemed like an eternity. Both of them were looking at Bridget; Pam was assuredly watching for signs of consciousness as intently as Mark was.

"When she was little," Pam began sombrely, "in fact, the summer before she turned seven, she saw some older children swinging on the playground and jumping off, and decided to give it a go. Split her lower lip open." Mark turned to look at Pam—she had a smile on her face but tears in her eyes again—before he turned back to Bridget. "I was a mess. There was blood all over the place. Practically ran with her in my arms all the way to Accident and Emergency. Only needed a couple of stitches, thank goodness, and she was up and about the next day like nothing ever happened."

Mark wistfully recalled from his intimate familiarity with her lips the one slightly uneven area on her lower lip near the left corner of her mouth, otherwise invisible to the naked eye. Reflexively he tightened his grip on her fingers, felt emotion settling in his throat again. _I'll kiss them again soon._

Pam continued, "She's resilient; she's strong. She'll be fine." He then felt Pam's fingers squeezing on his. "She has to be." Pam them let go and quickly got to her feet. "I'd better let Colin come in before he wears a path in the waiting room floor." She came around the bed to where Mark was sitting, and, bending slightly, held out her arms for an embrace, which he accepted gratefully. She patted his hair again in that motherly way before kissing his head. "She is, after all, surrounded by such love."

He nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.

………

Bridget's room had a bathroom with a stall shower, so he availed himself of it after they had all gone for good. He had acquired a hospital gown and gave his blood-stained garments to his mother who, bless her soul, had returned with a change of clothes for him; his father was tending to the details of the wrecked vehicle with the police and the garage that had accepted it. The pained look on her face as she had taken in his features, the sorry state of his shirt, had said volumes about his appearance, and when he had finally gotten in front of a mirror, he'd seen why.

The shirt, once white, was streaked with dried blood and other grime, and while they had cleaned him up relatively well to tend to his injuries, he found evidence of how much more must have been on him when he took it off altogether. He had several bruises and small cuts on his own face, none that he thought would cause any permanent or disfiguring scarring. _I must have looked like a beating victim_ , he thought. He cared not for his appearance for appearance's sake, but for the state of mind of his mother, father, the Joneses… and for Bridget when she woke. He wanted no unnecessary worry directed his way.

In the shower, he gingerly washed his hair, avoiding the injury; the hot water, the soap, brought each little tiny cut and scratch into sharp relief. As he ran the soap over his aching limbs, his thoughts turned to his conversations with Colin Jones and his own parents, which were quiet but meaningful, but it was his interaction with Pam Jones that he kept replaying in his head.

Never had he seen her so humble, so shaken… so _real_. It was ordinarily so easy to think of her as an extreme caricature of an excitable mother, but her solemnity had driven home how tender and true her own feelings were. He certainly didn't dislike her mother, but he had also never considered himself particularly close to her either. He could see that already changing.

He stepped out, drying himself off with the gleaming white and slightly rough cotton towel, then slipped into the casual clothes his mother had brought for him. He thought about shaving with the kit the hospital had provided (again, only for appearance's sake) but decided that navigating around the cuts weren't worth the aggravation.

He went back out to Bridget. She hadn't moved a muscle. He sighed.

The sun was well on its way to setting, and cast orange rays across the room through the slats of the blinds. He switched on the lamp on the table beside her bed, then went over to close the blinds fully.

The hospital room was wonderfully furnished with a well-padded, high-backed chair. He pulled it around close to the bed and leaned back in the chair so that he could sit and watch her as she slept.

He preferred to think of it as sleep.

A nurse came in to check on Bridget's vitals, recording figures into her chart from monitors he hadn't even noticed were there. She also wanted to know if he was hungry. He knew he should have accepted something to eat, but he had no appetite. He politely refused. He noticed she flipped open a second manila folder and made a notation in there too. His own chart, most likely.

The nurse left and returned a little while later with two blankets and a couple of pillows for Mark. He accepted them with a wan smile. "You do realise that that chair is a recliner, don't you?" she asked.

He sheepishly admitted he did not.

"Hope you get some sleep, Mr Darcy," she said. "You've had a very stressful day and your body could really use the rest."

He nodded. "I hope so too."

"Just press the call button if you need anything."

………

It was a sharp, rapid _BEEBEEBEE_ sound that brought him back to wakefulness; he realised that one of the monitors was going haywire. He looked around himself, around her in the dim of the room, searching in vain for the call button, but he needn't have bothered, because within seconds two nurses and a doctor came flying in. 

"Mr Darcy, stand back," commanded the doctor. He obeyed.

Mark had no idea what was going on. He was filled with panic and dread; monitors did not make sounds like that unless something was wrong. He felt sweat suddenly on his forehead, felt himself flash hot then cold as adrenaline surged through him.

It was a cacophony of sound during which he only caught snippets of phrases—"low blood pressure", "internal bleeding" and "emergency surgery" among them—before they were rushing her out of the room. His hands were shaking as he stood there staring down at her hastily vacated bed.

The clock on the wall indicated it was just after three in the morning. He felt utterly at sea, had no idea what to do. He didn't want to call and wake everyone up unnecessarily, but he also thought her family, his family, should be here if the worst—

_No. It won't end like this_ , he thought. _It can't._

Time moved more slowly than it ever had before in his life. His only companion was the ticking of the second hand as he paced around feeling useless. It was an eternity before someone came back into the room—forty-five minutes by the clock's reckoning. He thought he must be imagining things because the scrub nurse looked anything but sad.

She got right to the point. "Your wife is fine."

He collapsed back into his chair, gripping the arms for support, pushing out a breath of relief, shaking anew. "What happened," he asked flatly, looking up.

"There was a fractured rib we didn't catch on the x-ray on the first look," she advised. "At some point when she was being shifted, it moved and caused a small cut to the liver. It might have been inconsequential to any other organ, but since the liver's so blood-rich…" It seemed she sensed she was veering close to a potentially too-explicit description, and changed course. "The monitors picked up the drop in blood pressure. The rib was easy to spot in the operating room. We were able stop the bleeding and take care of the rib with a minimally invasive surgery." She smiled. "Everything's fine. She's all bandaged up, in recovery and in a few hours they'll bring her back here."

"And there are no other broken ribs?"

"No," said the nurse. "We examined the x-rays again and we could see it very clearly on second inspection. The others are fine."

He sighed, looking to his where his hands were folded in on one another. He was determined not to beat himself up over what-ifs, but he found himself thinking them nonetheless—what if she had been able to come home, and such a cut, such damage had gone unnoticed?

"I want to see her."

"I'm very sorry, not while in recovery." The nurse looked very sympathetic. "Why don't you lie back and try to rest? I can get you something to help you sleep." 

His initial reaction was to refuse, but on deeper reflection, he decided it might not be such a bad idea after all. He nodded, and she smiled, departing and returning in short order with a couple of tablets and a glass of orange juice.

Within minutes he fell into a dreamless sleep.


	2. hope

When he woke he could tell by the glow around the blinds that it was full daytime. Bridget was back in her bed; how he had not heard them come in and settle her back into the bed was completely beyond him. The dark smudges around her eyes seem to have grown, and her cheeks, rather than swollen, now seemed drawn somehow. They also had put her on an intravenous for fluids and nutrients. Logically, he knew she needed it. Emotionally, it was another blow, reminding him she had been out for far too long.

He sat forward, pushing the footrest down and tossing the blanket aside he got to his feet, stretching, feeling his head pound, feeling a little dizzy as he did so. "Shall I open the blinds, bring a little light in here?"

No reply. He hadn't really been expecting one.

He went around and turned the little rod that controlled the spaces between the vertical blinds, and the room was filled with light, so bright that it made him squint for a moment or two.

"Nice to see you awake," came a voice, another nurse, as she strode into the room. She was an older woman with a very kind face, almost grandmotherly. "Sally must have given you something after our little emergency last night—ah, yes, she put it on your chart." She looked up from said chart. "How are you feeling?"

"Dull throb of a headache," he said, "but it might as easily be that I need some coffee."

"You're having breakfast, you are. Says here you turned down dinner last night." She tsked.

He smiled. He couldn't help it. "I was a little off my feed last night." He looked down to Bridget. "How's my wife?"

"Holding steady," said the nurse, checking Bridget's vitals from the other side of the bed, making marks in her chart. "She'll be up and around in no time, take my word."

_How can you be sure?_ he thought, gazing upon her immobile form.

"She's had a big trauma," continued the nurse. "Sometimes the body just likes to sleep it off."

He felt strangely comforted. Surely this woman had some experience with this sort of thing.

"Thank you," he said, his voice surprisingly gravelly with emotion. He wasn't hungry, only felt mildly nauseous. "I'll think about breakfast."

"Just say the word," she said with a smile for him, then left the room.

He went into the loo and slapped some water onto his face. He looked a bit improved over last night, but the stubble made him look even more haggard. After briefly contemplating shaving, he thought, _To hell with it_. It just wasn't worth it.

He went back out, settled in the chair beside Bridget and looked at her, his stomach sinking all over again. She looked so peaceful, and, despite the injuries, so lovely, like an angel. _And I'm the devil_ , he thought miserably, _who put you in this state._

He didn't know how long he sat looking at her when he heard a timid knocking on the door. The doctors and nurses wouldn't knock; they never did. He called out, "Come in."

It was Bridget's mother, straining to smile, though she looked little improved over when he'd seen her yesterday. She came bearing a white paper bag and a drink tray with two cups on it. "Hello Mark," she said. "Is she…?" She nodded her head in Bridget's direction.

"She's still out."

Pam pulled her mouth into a tight line before forcing a smile again. "I brought some coffee for you both, and, well, chocolate muffins. Bridget prefers them…"

"Thank you," he said as she pulled one of the coffees out of the paper tray and handed it to him. "I'd love one."

She set the tray with the other cup down on Bridget's bedside then reached into the bag for a muffin. She smiled as she gave it to him, and he had a generous bite then a long draw of coffee. Both were surprisingly delicious.

"Uneventful night, I trust?" she asked brightly.

Whatever change occurred on his face must have reflected that the night had in fact not been uneventful, for Pam looked suddenly stricken, bringing her hand to her mouth. "Everything's fine now," he assured, "but a broken rib caused some trouble in the middle of the night."

"Trouble?" she asked, her voice high and strained.

"Emergency surgery."

Pam gasped, tears in her eyes. "Mark, you should have called!"

"Mrs Jones, it was nearing four in the morning, everything went well in surgery. I'm sorry." He sighed. "I didn't want to call you and worry you unnecessarily."

She blinked, staring at him. 

"And then they gave me a sedative so that I could sleep."

"Mark," she said quietly, after many moments of silence. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you."

He looked down to his muffin, his coffee, and felt no impulse at all to finish either.

Pam continued. "You're under a lot of stress and I'm sure you did what you thought was best."

He looked up at her, up to her sincere smile, and said, "Thank you."

Pam sighed, looking to her daughter, taking Bridget's right hand in her own. "I forget sometimes she's not a little girl anymore," she said mournfully. "She's all grown up with a life of her own, a husband to watch over her…"

"She will always need her mum," said Mark. He waited for Pam to look back towards him, and he offered her a smile, reached out to take her free hand.

She squeezed it before she released it, and smiled through a fresh set of tears. "She really could not have done better than you," she said softly, before clearing her throat. "And I don't just say that because I helped make the match," she added, a bit of her humour returning. "Now have your coffee and eat your muffin."

He took another sip of coffee, his appetite suddenly restored. After another bite of muffin, he said, "It would be a shame for the other coffee to go to waste, Pam. Why don't you have it?"

Her expression—surprised yet pleased—made him realise only belatedly that he had called her by her first name. "Mark, that's sweet, but she'll want it when she wakes."

He doubted she'd be allowed to have it when she woke, but he didn't want to burst her bubble.

The coffee and the muffin were dispatched in no time flat, and he rose to sit on the side of the bed to take his wife's left hand again in his, the rings firm against his fingers.

"I should let her father come in," said Pam softly, though she made no move to rise or to release Bridget's hand. "He's probably aching to see her."

"I could go and—"

"No," said Pam. "Your place—"

Suddenly, Bridget's breathing changed; it got deeper and stronger just as he felt a miraculous pressure on the fingers of his right hand. "Mark," came the quiet, rasping, yet firm voice from between her lips as her eyelids fluttered and struggled to open. "Is Mark all right?"

Pam hiccoughed a sob and squeezed Bridget's hand more tightly but bit down on her lower lip, holding back what it was he knew she wanted to say. Bridget's eyes opened at last, and he never thought he'd be so happy to see that shade of blue again. "My love," said Mark, straining to keep his voice strong. "I'm right here, and I'm fine. How do you feel?"

She blinked very slowly. "Like I hit a deer."

He chuckled spontaneously just as tears spilled out of his eyes afresh; he released her hand so that he could do his very best to embrace her given her injuries, to then cup her face in his hands and place gentle kisses on her bruised cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he said in a low whisper, pulling back far enough to look into those glorious (albeit slightly reddened) sapphire eyes of hers once more.

She shook her head, as if to say _don't apologise_. Soundlessly she said, "I know."

"We were so worried," came Pam's tremulous voice.

"Oh, Mum," said Bridget, turning her head slowly; Mark sat up to allow her mother to give her a hug too. "I'm sorry I ruined your party."

Pam sat up, and said in that familiar maternal tone, "Nonsense. There is nothing more important to me than my family: my girl, my son…" She drifted off, smiling and crying tears of happiness, darting a glance to Mark as she wound down. "Let me go and get your father, darling."

Mark said, "Pam, I can go—"

Pam, however, would have none of it: "Mark, as I started to say before, your place is at her side. I'll be right back."

As Pam left, Mark brought her left hand up to his lips, closing his eyes. "It's very good to have you back," he said quietly.

"Back?" she said, her voice stronger but still rough. "What do you mean?"

He raised his eyes to her again. "You've been unconscious since the accident."

She blinked with incredulity. "Like, for weeks?"

_Perish the thought_ , he said to himself. "Since yesterday."

"Oh. Guess that doesn't mean I've lost a bunch of weight."

He laughed lightly. "No, darling." He was then struck with a sudden sense of dread, worried that some after-effects of the accident wouldn't have presented themselves until she woke…

"Mark? What's wrong?" she asked in a rough voice.

He stood, releasing her hand, and went to the foot of the bed to pull the covers up. Her feet were clad in hospital-issue booties. "Wiggle your toes."

"What?"

"I said—"

He stopped short when he saw the tell-tale signs of her toes moving underneath the fabric of the socks. "I heard you," she explained; "I just thought it a weird request."

He sighed with relief, steadying himself against the back of his recliner before going back to sit at her side again. "Was just making sure everything was in good working order."

She smiled. "I'm not sure about good at the moment—" she started to say, then groaned as she tried to move a little bit. "What this around my ribs?"

"That would be to keep your broken rib behaving," said Mark.

"Ah," she said. "That explains the pain in my side."

"Welcome back, Mrs Darcy," said a new voice, the grandmotherly nurse, as she came in with the charts. "The rest of your family's outside but I told them to wait until I got a look at you." She shot a look at Mark. "I hate to say 'I told you' but—"

Mark laughed. "In this case, I don't mind."

Bridget merely looked puzzled.

The nurse declared that she was in good enough shape to raise the head of the bed despite the surgery, and she also gave her a little something for the pain. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"I thought I smelled coffee…" Bridget began.

"Water it shall be," said the nurse. "And in a bit, maybe some gelatine."

Bridget pouted. Mark had never been gladder to see it.

After the nurse left, Mark heard a soft knock, heralding the arrival of Pam and Colin Jones along with his own parents, who came tentatively in, but whose faces lit up at the very sight of Bridget awake and aware. His father, Malcolm, was bearing an arrangement of assorted flowers with a "Get Well Soon" banner across them.

"Poppet," said Colin Jones, going to Bridget's side, bending to kiss her cheek. "We've all been beside ourselves with worry."

"I'm sorry to have caused such a fuss."

"Nonsense," he said, sitting on the bed beside her. "It's never a fuss when it's someone you love. I'd do anything for you, my dear."

Mark's mother came around to give Mark a stronger hug than he was used to; she looked haggard from anxiety, too, but was smiling now. He felt his father's hand, firm and reassuring, on his shoulders. "We heard about the surgery," she said quietly. "Must have been a terrible fright for you."

"Surgery?" exclaimed Bridget.

"Yes," said Mark patiently. "It was a very badly behaved rib, after all."

She chuckled but then winced with pain. He felt badly for making her laugh, and hoped the painkillers would kick in soon. 

"These are for you, my dear," said Malcolm, bending to kiss her cheek too.

"Oh, Malcolm, thank you," she said, raising her head towards the nightstand, pain apparently forgotten. "Why don't you put them over there—" However, her eyes then connected with the coffee cup on the nightstand and they lit with an unholy glow. "Dad, clear some room for the flowers and hand me that coffee."

"Absolutely not," chimed in her mother as she swooped the coffee cup up and off the nightstand. "Nurse says no coffee for you."

"Mark—"

"Bridget," Mark said, "do what your mother tells you."

She pouted again.

Yes. They were going to be all right.

………

Their parents didn't stay too long, because they could see how taxing it was on Bridget; almost as soon as they left she fell asleep again. "Wake me up in—" was as much as she got out before the nap overtook her, and he grinned. It was definitely a nap, not a relapse into unconsciousness. He could tell by the way she was breathing.

He ventured out of the room for the first time since he'd entered it, and made his way to the street with his mobile; Bridget's, which had been among her belongings, was beyond using due to the crash. The summer air felt wonderful, and he flipped open his phone, powering it back on, to call Jeremy to explain what had happened, and to arrange for his workload to be redistributed.

Next he phoned Bridget's boss, who always seemed slightly intimidated by Mark, to let him know about the accident. He seemed glad to hear she was all right, and insisted on knowing the hospital and the room number in order to send flowers. _Maybe the man's human after all_ , though Mark bemusedly.

He noticed then that he had ten new missed calls, all of them from the same number: Bridget's friend, Sharon. He immediately rung her up.

"Mark!" said Sharon upon pickup. "What's happened?"

"Everything's all right," he said, trying to quell her panic. "Bridget's in hospital, but she's fine."

"In hospital?" she cried hysterically.

"She's fine," he said once more. "We had an accident on the way to her parents'. Hit a deer."

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "Is she all right?"

"She is fine," he said yet again, carefully enunciating every word.

"Oh my God. Which hospital?"

He told her.

"We're coming to visit," she announced.

"Not today," he said firmly. "If you want to come tomorrow, that's fine. Today was a very trying day and she needs to rest."

"How badly was she hurt?" Sharon asked.

He explained: "Concussion, head wound—don't worry, she's still got all her faculties about her—and a broken rib." He decided the emergency surgery was not worth mentioning. "Mostly she's tired out from the parental visits."

Sharon actually laughed lightly. "I'm just glad she's all right." After a pause, she added, "And you too, of course. I just assumed—"

He chuckled. "Yes, I'm fine. Just a concussion and a few cuts and scrapes."

"Just assumed since you were calling that you're okay."

"I'm fine," he repeated. "If you could call her other friends and let them know, I'd appreciate it. I'd like to get back up to her room."

"Absolutely," she said. After a beat of silence, Sharon added, "We'll see you tomorrow."

………

Mark stayed in her room with her again, and in fact, he managed to slip in beside her on the ridiculously narrow bed, earning him puzzled looks from the attending nurses as they came in to check on her. He held her as they lay there in the fading sunlight, her cheek resting against his chest.

It occurred to him that maybe she thought he was apologising earlier for hitting the deer.

"Darling," he began gently, not even sure if she was still awake, "you did know I was trying to apologise before for my tart comment in the car, didn't you?"

"Mm-hmm," she replied sleepily. "In that moment before I turned away, I saw the regret written all over your face. I knew you were sorry then."

He squeezed his embrace very carefully, and said, "I'm thankful then that I seemed to have lost the ability to so thoroughly mask my feelings."

"It helps to know you would never intentionally try to hurt me."

They were both silent a few minutes more, then she spoke again, exaggerating a great big sigh. "The things I have to do to get you to forget about work for a little while."

He laughed, then raised his head enough to kiss her hair before resting on the pillow again. He felt suddenly very sleepy, and closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall under.

………

True to their words, Sharon, Tom and Jude came to visit the next day, bearing more flowers, though Mark admonished them not to make her laugh too hard. "The broken rib," he reminded. They nodded solemnly.

She seemed to laugh (and wince) quite a lot anyway.

Mark spent the next few nights with his parents, though for the amount of time he spent at her side in the hospital, he might as well have been staying with Bridget. Slowly but surely the dark circles around her eyes began to diminish; the bruises went from blackish-purple to blue, the edges turning faint yellow. Whilst at his parents', he spent some time speaking on the phone to the authorities and the insurance company about the accident; the car was deemed a total loss. He wasn't surprised, but it did leave him without a vehicle.

"Well," said his mother, "I hardly want you driving anyway, so soon after a concussion."

When Bridget was released, she insisted at staying with her parents for a few days. "I don't want to drive all the way back to London yet," she admitted, "and I kind of want my mum."

He smiled, then kissed her forehead. "Yes, my love."

Mr Jones took them back to the Gables, and Mark carried her up to her childhood bedroom; he remembered Bridget telling him once that the single bed of years past had been replaced with a double, anticipating future stays. He grinned. It was still smaller than their king, but it was far more commodious than the hospital bed. The sheets were folded down in preparation of her arrival, and he set her straight down onto the mattress.

"I'd like my flowers in here, too," she said.

"Of course."

The room was soon bursting with the scent of the different flowers, those from his father, her boss, and her friends. He had to admit that the fresh air coming in through the open window mixed with their fragrance was quite pleasing.

He turned to ask her opinion of their placement when he realised she had fallen to sleep. He went to her side and pulled the sheets up to her shoulders, brushing her blonde locks off of her face. _How close I came to losing you_ , he thought, then vowed to put dark thoughts out of his mind.

It occurred to him that he had never really had a good look around her old room, and as he retreated from her side his eyes were drawn to a frame on the wall, to a photo of Bridget when she was a baby; her blue eyes gleamed up from the photo, a toothless smile on her cute little chubby face, her fine blonde hair pulled up and clasped back with a plastic barrette. On the bookcase beside it, he found a doll, vaguely familiar, propped upon a shelf; as he gazed at it, trying to recall why it seemed familiar, he remembered that this doll had been taken swimming in the paddling pool, long ago at his eighth birthday party. He had seen it many times in his mother's photos from the day.

At her dressing table, there were photos stuck between the wood and the mirror; one of a young teenaged blonde girl he recognised at once to be her, laughing with her arms around old school pals, braces gleaming in the flash of the camera; on what he presumed was her first ever day of school, dressed in plaid and carrying a lunch pail with a foul expression on her face; one from a Halloween, pre-teen, of her dressed as an angel. On the dresser itself, there was a small lock of almost white-blonde hair tied up in a ribbon, matching that baby's in the photo, likely from her first haircut, in a small silver frame. There was a plastic award medal hanging on the edge of the mirror, as well as a swath of different ribbons, and a puzzling rubber-over-wire bendable figure with a human body and a horse's head hanging on for dear life over the corner of the mirror.

All of it he loved as much as he did her, and the emotion that choked his throat surprised him. To think he might not have had a chance to ask her about these things…

There was a quiet knock on the open door before Pam peeked around the corner. "Are you two feeling—Oh, I'm sorry, is she sleeping?"

Mark nodded.

"If you're interested in supper, it's ready."

It wasn't a bad meal, the three of them; the food was quite tasty (a very safe shepherd's pie) and the company of her parents was comfortable as well as comforting. The topic of conversation was obvious.

"It's good for her to sleep," proclaimed Pam. "She'll recover more quickly."

"I agree," said Mark. "She's barely taken any of the painkillers she's been prescribed, which I'm glad for."

"Women do seem to have a higher pain tolerance, bless their souls," commented Colin. "Did the doctor give you care instructions?"

Mark nodded. "They've already taken out the stitches from her head, and from her side. Very small incision, indeed. Just below the binding around her ribs." He tried to shut out the mental image of the bruises on her body. "I just have to change the dressing every day."

"You know she's going to try to get up and around before she should," said Pam authoritatively, putting another forkful of mash into her mouth.

Colin chuckled. "Thankfully she'll be bullied otherwise from three sides."

Mark finished his dinner. "Speaking of getting up and around before she ought to, I'd better check to make sure she's staying put. I think the shepherd's pie will be a little heavy for her. Do you have something she could eat, in case she's hungry?"

Pam's face lit up. "Why yes. I have broth in the freezer. I'll just go and pull it out."

Mark smiled, then excused himself to head back upstairs. She was just rousing from sleep and looked up to him with a drowsy smile, pushing herself to sit up.

"Hello, sleepyhead," he said. "Are you hungry?"

"A little." She was staring pretty fixedly at him. "Mark?"

He sat beside her on the bed. "What is it, darling? What do you need?"

"I was just wondering about the…" she began, drawing her finger in the air just over her own jaw line. 

"I don't understand."

"Well." She looked a little sheepish. "Are you trying to grow a beard? Was it a bedside vigil thing?"

He laughed, resisting the urge to pull her to him and hold her to him. "No, love. It was just too onerous a task to try to shave without irritating my own cuts."

"Oh, Mark. I'm so sorry." She reached to grasp his hand. "I never even really asked about how hurt you were."

"As you can see, I'm fine. Ready for a good night's sleep in a proper bed with you by my side, but fine."

She smiled, but still looked querulously at his face. "Are you going to… keep it?" she asked.

"Keep what?"

"The… _beard_."

The way she spat out the word, the look on her face, spoke volumes about her opinion on his facial hair. He couldn't resist a tease. "I'm not sure. I've grown rather fond of it. Lends an air of distinction. And saves me the trouble of—hey!"

She had hurled a tiny stuffed creature at him, striking him in the middle of his chest. "You won't be kissing me with a scratchy face."

"I'll be shaving as soon as possible," he said with a grin.

She smiled, apparently satisfied. "Can you bring me a little bit of supper?"

"Of course." He went downstairs to alert Pam to bring the broth to full temperature, while he took a detour to the bathroom and found his shaving kit.

When he returned to the bedroom he found her sitting up against the propped pillows, and when he appeared she nodded in appreciation. "That's more like it. The better to see your fantastic smile."

He obliged her, sitting beside her. She raised her hand to his now-smooth cheek, over the slight raised bumps of where his cuts were, now almost entirely gone. "Lean forward and we'll put it to the test."

He obliged her this as well, taking care to be gentle, his hand cupping her own face. How he'd missed kissing her; he knew it was as far as they could take it until her rib was healed, so he savoured it.

When he pulled back, she had a lovely, dreamy quality about her. "I approve."

Her mother chose to appear at that moment with a tray bearing a soup bowl and a stack of crackers, announcing her presence with a sharp knock on the door jamb. "Dinner's here!" she said.

Seeing the softness of her eyes, Mark had to wonder how long she'd actually been standing there, and he smirked as he moved from the bed to accept the tray.

She was able to eat almost an entire bowl of beef broth, one she clearly didn't care for, but ate at her mother's (and Mark's) insistence. Pam insisted on returning in a while to give her daughter a kiss goodnight. Mark insisted that both of her parents do so.

"Tomorrow," Mark said after they'd gone, "we can make you a little nest down in the living room if you like, so you don't have to be up here all by yourself."

She smiled, pleased with the idea. "What about tonight?"

"Tonight you go to bed early like the doctor said."

"I don't feel sleepy," lamented Bridget as he crawled into bed beside her.

He brushed her hair back with his fingertips, looking down into her eyes. "I know," he said. "You can tell me all about that weird little bendy toy hanging on your mirror."

"The what?"

"That strange… horse-headed thing on the corner of the mirror, on your dressing table."

She chuckled, then winced a little. "That was the first thing a boy ever gave me. Stupid prize from some kind of carnival…." Her expression softened as she continued to reminisce. "At the time, though… it felt like he was giving me the crown jewels."

Mark smiled, then pointed to the bookcase. "And how about that doll? Do you have any memory of trying to teach her to swim in my paddling pool?"

She screwed up her features. "Did I?"

"My mother has photographic evidence to support it."

"I have vague memories of thinking that it might be a good idea if she learned…"

It was Mark's turn to chuckle. He shifted a little in order to change his view, and started asking about various and sundry other things in her room. His plan worked; she went on for some time until her lids started to droop.

"Darling," he said gently, "you should try to sleep now."

"But I like talking to you. I'm not—" As if to contradict her forthcoming assertion regarding fatigue, a yawn overtook her. She grimaced again at the pain.

"Why don't you just try?" he coaxed gently.

"I'll try," she grumbled.

Unsurprisingly, she was asleep before he was.


	3. aftermath

It had all been a big mistake. He'd been wrong all along. As he went from room to room in his house, looking for Bridget, and seeing that she was nowhere to be found, the dread that filled him increased, and he kept telling himself: He'd been wrong all along.

She wasn't here. And when he had encountered their parents, her friends, teary-eyed and staring accusingly at him, all clad in black, he knew why he couldn't find her. She hadn't survived.

_It's your fault_ , they all said with their glares.

He was filled with confusion and grief. Had her surgery, her recovery at her parents' house, all been a dream? He turned and found himself face to face with a casket, a closed casket surrounded by a wall of roses of every shade. There was a small bronze plaque at the foot that he was too afraid to look at; he knew instinctively what it said. He backed away from the gleaming golden-brown wood, trembling all over. He raised his hands to his head, wove his fingers into his hair, trying to scream but no sound came out—

With a great gasp, he awoke, still shaking, his forehead beading with sweat. Still panting for air, he immediately turned to his side. To his great relief she was there, slumbering but very much alive, breathing with the long, slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.

_Jesus_ , he thought, fighting the instinct to pull her against him; there was no need to wake her, and he didn't want to risk hurting her with the sort of embrace he was likely to need. Instead, he rose from the bed, pacing a bit before deciding to go downstairs.

He knew Colin Jones still kept scotch in the house.

He was startled, however, to find that Pam Jones was in the kitchen, tending to the kettle, waiting for it to boil. "Mark, whatever is the matter?" she asked, turning to look at her with obvious alarm. "Is it Bridget? Is she all right?"

"She's fine."

"You look so pale and scared," she said. "I thought maybe…"

"She's sleeping like a baby. I, on the other hand…" He drifted off, not sure about confiding his nightmare to her. 

"Oh, Mark. Bad dream?"

He blinked in disbelief. 

Pam continued, "Have some tea with me."

He glanced to the clock. It was one in the morning, give or take a few minutes. "Were you having trouble sleeping too?" he asked her.

"I haven't slept well since the accident," she said matter-of-factly, as she got a second cup down for Mark, placed a tea bag into each cup, then poured the boiling water on top of them. "I know she's going to be all right, but there are some things that a mother just can't turn off." She looked to him, her eyes wide and quite piercing. "I can't imagine what this is doing to you."

As she slid his cup towards him, he wrapped his hands around the cup. "I dreamt that Bridget was—" His teacup went blurry before him. "Dead. And everyone just… the looks of disgust…" He trailed off.

He felt her hand strong on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "Mark, you're not to blame."

"But if I hadn't been so irritated and upset about having to set aside work to make the drive…" he went on, trailing off. "I don't care a lick for work now."

Pam pulled him tight to her, her arm around his waist, her hand fixed on his elbow. "It was an accident. Everyone knows that," she said quietly. "Everyone also knows that foremost in your mind is Bridget's health and safety. Nothing could ever distract you from that, not even irritation or anger."

"But—"

"No buts," she said curtly. "You said you looked to Bridget in the car?"

"Yes."

"And the bulk of the damage was on the passenger side?"

"Yes."

"So you were looking practically directly where the deer hit and you still couldn't avoid it? Do you think you would have reacted better, faster, if you'd been looking straight ahead?"

He had no answer to that.

"Now it'd be another story altogether if you'd seen the deer and aimed _towards_ it…" she added, striving for levity.

He felt himself smiling despite his nightmare. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Oh, heavens, Mark, that's what mums are for," she said brightly. "Have your tea, have a couple of sugar biscuits, and get back to bed. I have a feeling you'll need your strength as she starts to feel better."

He took his hands from the teacup and turned to give Pam a hug, to let her know the depth of his appreciation. "Yes, ma'am," he said quietly.

Mark drank his tea, ate a couple of biscuits, and felt considerably calmer and sleepier as he finished. Pam sat with him and drank her own, and they spent the time in easy silence. He had never considered Pam Jones as a beacon of reason, but he was discovering more depth to her than he ever imagined.

"Well. Off to bed with me then." He rose, taking his teacup to the sink. "And yourself?"

"I'll be going back up in a few," she said, still staring down into her own cup.

It occurred to Mark that perhaps Pam still considered herself somewhat to blame for the accident—after all, it was her party they had been on their way to. Logic applied to others did not always apply to oneself. Mark knew this from his own experience. "Pam," he said tenderly. "It could have happened on any day, on any country lane—it could have just as easily happened on the way to my own parents' home. Don't hold yourself to blame, either."

She glanced up to him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, then smiled and nodded, sniffing. "Good night, Mark. Sleep well."

Mark headed back to the room he was sharing with Bridget, but stopped at the door. There was someone in the room with Bridget. As his eyes adjusted, he realised it was her father, sitting on the bedside, gazing down at his daughter. Mark smiled.

At that moment, Colin turned to look at Mark, as if startled by a sound behind him. "Oh, Mark," he whispered, getting quickly but quietly to his feet. "I heard a sound, and got up to make sure she was okay. Sorry."

"Don't apologise."

Colin glanced to Bridget. "She'll be okay, I know. Doesn't mean I can't get the thought out of my head that such an awful thing happened to you two."

"Yeah," said Mark. "She'll be okay." He clapped a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Why don't you gather your wife up and get back to bed? We'll all need the sleep—I think Bridget's feeling better already," he added, echoing Pam's thoughts.

Once Colin had gone, Mark got back into bed, and curled as close to his wife as he could, bending to kiss her at the temple before settling into his pillow. When he fell back to sleep, he had no more bad dreams that night.

………

It wasn't until they were back in London, driven back by Bridget's father, that the dreams returned, only variations on the theme—that she was still in hospital, paralysed or in a vegetative state, or even that she was trying to get away from him, shouting accusingly at him that she didn't want him to hurt her again. He would wake, sweating and shaking, not sure who to turn to, who to confide in.

He certainly couldn't confide in Bridget. He didn't want to add to her worries.

Attempts to rationalise to himself that the accident was only that—an accident—had no effect on the dreams. His frustration in this was, unfortunately, expressed in an overprotectiveness. He knew he was doing it, but the accident underscored how delicate and tenuous life was, how everything could change in a moment. He was not about to stand down his guard.

It was little wonder that his frustration would express itself in this way, after all; as her bruises faded and her cuts healed, her acceptance of the doctor's recommendation of rest at home went as far as not going to work. She did not seem to grasp that it did not mean shopping excursions with Magda or lunch with Shaz and Jude over a bloody Mary, which he forbade her to do, much to her increased irritation. He decided to work from his home office just to make sure she was staying in and recuperating.

Even still, there was also the matter of the physical impossibility of being in two places at once. It was a comment from Jeremy that set his mind to thinking:

"So, Mark, when shall we expect a happy announcement from you?"

Mark had no idea what he was talking about.

Jeremy continued: "You... Bridget... surely you're thinking of children. I mean, after her recovery of course."

_Ah,_ he thought, _the logical follow-up to the age-old 'when are you getting married' query._ "We—" He stopped short. Jeremy had three children of his own. Jeremy might be able to solve his dilemma. "—haven't talked about it since the accident," continued Mark smoothly, "but I'm doing a little research on my own. Logistics and so on. I keep meaning to ask you, actually, if you have a baby monitor I might borrow for a little while. To do some testing with broadcast ranges in my house."

He could hear the smile on Jeremy's face as he said, "You bet. I'll ask Magda and have her bring it by."

"No," said Mark quickly. "I mean, I'll run 'round your place and pick it up. You're doing me a big enough favour as it is."

"If you insist," replied Jeremy. "If you're sure you want to leave her alone for that long..."

He wasn't sure that he did, but not for the reason Jeremy was likely thinking. He didn't want her friend showing up with it; he wanted to install it surreptitiously. "I'm sure," he said. "It's kind of a surprise, so tell Magda not to say anything to Bridget."

"Righty-ho," said Jeremy. "Let me ring Mags up. I'll call you back when she's found it."

"Great."

Jeremy called back within a half-hour, and with the excuse that he had to go and sign a paper at the office, he went out to retrieve it. "Why don't you try to nap?" he suggested.

She nodded. "Think I will."

When he returned, she was fast asleep, which gave him the chance to get the receiver in place near the sofa. He set up the monitor on his desk. He was pleased when a few minutes later, he heard the rustling of the blanket, heard her yawn. He smiled smugly, then continued on with his work. She couldn't even turn over on the sofa without his knowing.

………

The sub rosa surveillance of Bridget from his office had been in place for most of the week; he was already feeling less stressed regarding her whereabouts, though his being there to help her every time she left the sitting room to use the loo must have made him seem downright psychic.

The dreams, however, did not abate.

He was in the midst of working when his phone rang, startling him. Three o'clock already. Time for phone conference with Jeremy and Giles. He heard her pushing back her blankets, some rustling—pages of a book. She had decided to read again. _Excellent_ , he thought.

It was in the middle of discussing case strategy that he heard a mobile ringing loudly.

"Mark?" asked Giles, stopping mid-sentence. "Is that yours?"

"Um," he said, fumbling to find the volume control on the monitor. He could not locate it. "It's, uh, Bridget's actually."

"Is she in your office with you?"

Jeremy, however, began to laugh, just as Bridget's voice sounded loud and clear through the monitor, greeting her friend Jude.

"Yeah," continued Bridget, "still under the watchful eye of the health dictator." He heard her sigh loudly.

Jeremy was veritably howling with laughter now. "Research, my left eye! You're using—"

"Jeremy, let's get back to—"

"—that monitor to listen to your wife!"

There was a terrible crashing sound, followed by a "What the bloody hell—"

He found the volume at last and turned it down. Giles at this point was laughing too.

"You'd better go, Mark," said a breathless Jeremy. "Something tells me you have some explaining to do." His two colleagues disconnected him from the call.

The only reason he hadn't told her was because he knew she would not understand. He was right.

"Mark," she said as he approached her in the sitting room. She was standing in her pyjamas, holding the receiver up by its power plug. She looked shocked... and angry. "What is… _this_?"

His reply wasn't the full truth, but was it neither a lie: "I wanted to make sure I heard you if you needed anything."

"Bollocks," she said, dropping the monitor; Mark feared for its structural integrity. "Especially since you made certain not to tell me about it!" She leaned back wearily against the arm of the sofa. "Mark, not even my mother would be this iron-fisted with me, secretly keeping dibs on what I'm doing with a baby monitor," she said with a frown. "If I need anything, I can get up and get it for myself. I can use the loo on my own. You don't have to watch me twenty-four hours a day like I'm a helpless child or like I might make a run for it."

"If I thought you would sit back and watch movies on the telly all day while I was working, I wouldn't have to." He moved to stand near the edge of the sofa beside her, held out his hand, and took hers in his own. "Why can't you just accept the doctor's recommendations that you rest and allow yourself to heal? I don't want you doing anything to compromise your recupera—"

"I know," she interrupted. "But why are you smothering me? I know what my limits are. It isn't as if I'm going out jogging or trying out for Cirque du Soleil."

"You've been out of hospital for fewer than two weeks."

"And?"

"And, you're hardly fully ready for return to your regular life."

"I'm not trying to!" she said in exasperation. "For God's sake, you've had a bloody _baby monitor_ set up between me and your office! Don't you think that's a little extreme?"

"No," he said, "I don't."

She looked up at him, blinked thoughtfully, searching his eyes with her own, which became softer the longer she was silent. "Mark," she said at last, the timbre of her voice sombre. "What is this really about? Tell me what's wrong."

He bristled. "Nothing's wrong."

She pursed her lips.

"Nothing's wrong," he said again, lifting his chin. "I'm going back to work."

He turned on his heel and was about to walk away when she said quietly, "You're doing it all over again."

He froze in place, turning back to her. She was right. He was turning his frustration and annoyance (this time, at his feelings of helplessness) against the one person who deserved it least.

"I know what this is about," she continued, pushing herself with a wince up off of the arm of the sofa. She walked to him, grasping his upper arms, fixing her gaze upon his. "Mark. Listen to me. It was an _accident_. It was nothing you meant to do, nothing I hold you responsible for, and while I appreciate you love me enough to try to keep me safe, I'm not in any more danger than I ever was. Things just happen sometimes."

"Yes, things do just happen sometimes, and if I can prevent them from happening again, I will," he said, his jaw clenching as he tried to quell the emotion. "I hope you _never_ know the terror I went through that night…" He trailed off, looking away, trying to compose himself again.

"Of course you hope that," she said tenderly, "and I pray you'll never know it again, but really, we can't stop living for fear of dying. You know?"

He looked down to her, to her bright blue eyes; her face was back to its porcelain hue, only marred by a few remnant scratches; through her flaxen hair he could still see the quickly fading scar on her head. He knew she was right. It was just so hard not to be afraid.

He closed his eyes and decided not to be afraid anymore.

"I keep dreaming," he said in a hushed, hesitant voice, "that reality, your recovery, is the dream, that you were actually very badly injured, paralysed, rendered just this side of brain-dead…" He looked at her again. "Worst of all, in a sense, are the ones where you're afraid to be near me, avoiding me, for fear of my hurting you again."

"Oh, Mark," she said, taking him in her arms. "It's just a dream. I'm here, I'm fine, and I'm not going anywhere."

"I see these things and they terrify me," he went on quietly. "You're still recovering and I didn't want to bother you—"

She pulled quickly back. "Bother me? Are you kidding me?"

He felt sheepish; even as the words had left his mouth they sounded ridiculous.

She continued, "How is my sensing something being wrong with you, being worried about it, and not being able to do anything about it helping me to heal?"

He looked at her in disbelief.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I could tell you weren't yourself. I knew though that if I asked you'd deny it." She smiled. "Stop thinking I can't handle my own healing and yours, too."

Overwhelmed with love for her, he bent to kiss her ever so gently on the lips.

" _Now_ , hotshot," she announced. "I want you to march into that office, put your work away—hell, give it to your co-conspirator Jeremy for that matter. I'm banishing you to the bedroom with me for the rest of the day."

She was still recovering, only two or so weeks into mending a broken rib, so their time together on their bed was tame by most marital standards: curled up with her, holding her close, plying her with tender, gentle kisses and her returning them in kind. He combed his fingers into her hair as she drifted off to sleep in his embrace; he too fell to sleep and was not plagued by terrible dreams.

He awakened to the sensation of her fingers tracing delicately along his own healing head injury. "Poor Mark," she said fretfully. "You had no one to take care of you."

"I was in very capable hands," he murmured.

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know," he returned. "Actually," he added, "that isn't true. Your mother was wonderful."

She stared at him as if he'd just announced he was voting Labour. "My mother. Pam Jones. Pickles on toothpicks. _That_ Pam Jones."

He chuckled. "Yes. Your mother."

"Hm," she said, pulling up a corner of her mouth. "Will miracles never cease?"

He laughed low in his throat, then cradled the back of her head with his hand; mindful of her binding, he pulled her to him. _I sure hope they don't_ , he thought.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: [Kettering General Hospital](http://www.kgh.nhs.uk).


End file.
